


T-Shirt

by ThePunkRanger



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Blame Thomas Rhett For This Entire Fic, Clothing Mix-Up, F/M, Nightmares, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:15:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26150242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePunkRanger/pseuds/ThePunkRanger
Summary: It was an honest mistake.  Just an honest, stupid mistake brought on by too little sleep.  Not that either of them are complaining.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Joan Watson (Elementary)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 103





	T-Shirt

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I don’t know guys, I just really love Sherlock and Joan in casual wear and then got a country song stuck in my head.

When Joan wakes up, its from a nightmare.An old, recurring one from her childhood, now sporting greater detail, courtesy of her new life as a consulting detective.

Even as she calms herself with the fact that she’s safely tucked in her room at the Brownstone, the paranoid, ancestral part of her brain has her skin prickling with the sensation of being watched.The sense that something is wrong, fueled by memories of past break-ins that they’ve had.Murderers, assassins, petty thieves... the house is quiet as far as she can hear, but the logical part of her is quickly losing out to lingering adrenaline.

She’ll go downstairs and have a cup of tea, she decides.It will grant her the ability to see that nothing is wrong without her having to admit to herself that she’s worried, and a glance at her clock tells her it’s only 3:37am, it’s not impossible that Sherlock is still awake. 

Not that she needs the company.

As it happens, Sherlock actually has put himself to bed at a semi-reasonable hour for once, because the Brownstone is dark and silent, and the door to his room is closed.

Of all the nights.

Once she’s down on the first floor, she double-checks the locks on the front door.They’re certainly not impenetrable, but it’s a small comfort to find them all properly set.

On her way to the kitchen she pokes her head into the guest bedroom (not scared, just... cautious.Because this is the point in the horror movie where the serial killer jumps out and drags her to her death.)

The kettle is sitting on the stove, and a quick heft of it shows that there’s still water from the day, so she turns on the burner and goes to ferret out a clean mug.

The mug she finds is hers from that morning, used in place of a glass for water, so she tosses in a mint tea bag and turns off the stove before the kettle starts whistling.

The tea is too hot to drink, so instead she holds the mug tightly, inhaling the steam and letting the warmth leak through the ceramic into her hands.

It’s uncomfortable in the kitchen, too dark and too empty, so instead she makes her way back to the main room, where at least the mess of Sherlock’s deductive process can keep her company.

There’s a laundry basket sitting on the coffee table that wasn’t there when she went to bed, and she wonders briefly at the cleanliness of the contents.

Putting down her tea, she takes the item from the top of the basket.It’s one of Sherlock’s t-shirts, faded red and soft as silk from being worn so often.She takes a cautious sniff of the fabric, and is genuinely surprised to find it clean, the hem that had been buried in the other clothes still warm from the dryer.

So he’d had the sense to fetch them from the dryer, but had seemingly gotten distracted before making it all the way back to his room with them.It’s far from his most egregious domestic behavior, and she chooses instead to think of it as a step in the right direction, seeing as she can’t even count the number of times she’s tripped over a discarded towel or pair of jeans around the Brownstone.

She moves to sit on the couch, not thinking about the fact that she still has Sherlock’s shirt in her hand.

By the time the tea is gone she’s beginning to nod off, adrenaline having faded out to a bones-deep exhaustion that’s a sure sign she might actually get to sleep again tonight.Groaning as her body protests being forced to move, she leaves the empty mug on the table, deciding it’s best left until morning.

She’s all too aware of the cold, clammy sweat that’s still dampening her pajamas by the time she gets back to her room, so she drops the thing in her hand and begins to strip, dumping top, bottoms, and hoodie in a heap on the floor.

Once completely relieved of her clothing, she glances around to try and find something to replace it with.

There’s a shirt on her bed.When did it get there?Is it hers?Is Sherlock laying out her outfits again?She decides that she’s too tired to be thinking so hard, and instead picks it up and pulls it on.

She’s pretty sure it’s not hers, because it falls to her mid-thigh and swims around her torso, but it’s soft and warm and it’s too late to wonder, so she shrugs off the questions and buries herself back in the nest of her blankets to try and get back to sleep.

—

A crash from downstairs wakes her in the morning, and she groans, burying her head underneath her pillow to try and get back to sleep.

Only now Sherlock is swearing and she supposes she should probably go downstairs and stop whatever it is he’s doing before he wakes up the entire neighborhood.

She’s still in her pajamas, but that’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, and besides, she doesn’t have the wherewithal to be dressed for the day just yet. 

And so, she heads downstairs.

Sherlock has knocked over his lock wall, and is standing in the wreckage like the eye of a storm, entirely still and pensive in the moment, dressed casually in a brown shirt and sweatpants.

“What are you doing?”It’s a fair question.Perhaps he’s had a breakthrough of some kind, or has spent his morning arguing on the internet over conspiracy theories and needed to let off some steam, or even, god forbid, just plain knocked the thing over by accident.

Sherlock isn’t looking at her when he replies, “I was under the impression that I had discovered the key, in this case both metaphorical and literal, to our suspect’s faulty alibi, but as it turns out-“ and then he stops.

He stops because he’s actually turned to look at her.

And now he’s staring.

“Ugh, _what_?”She snaps, throwing a hand in the air.

“Um...”

It’s incredibly rare that she gets to see the great Sherlock Holmes flustered, but in this moment his mouth isn’t producing any sound and his cheeks have turned a startling shade of scarlet and he won’t stop  _staring_.

“It- it would appear that we may have gotten our laundry mixed up.”

She furrows her brows, not yet following this soon after waking up.“What?”

Sherlock gestures wordlessly at her, and she finally,  _ finally_, dear god why did it take her this long to notice, looks down.

She’s wearing Sherlock’s t-shirt.The one she had picked out of the clean laundry the night before.She’s also not wearing anything else.

“Oh.”It’s the only thing she can come up with, and she can feel her face burning just as brightly as Sherlock’s as she takes in the full scope of what’s just happened.

“Yes.”It would seem Sherlock is equally at a loss for words, which she supposes is something to be grateful for.

They just stand there, staring at one another, for an agonizingly long moment, neither quite sure what they’re supposed to do in this situation.

“I’m gonna... go change.Now.”She says, finally breaking the silence, jerking a thumb back in the direction of the staircase.

As she walks away she hears Sherlock utter a quiet, “Right.”

She may not be quite as perceptive as Sherlock, but that doesn’t mean that she misses the scrape of the lock on the hardwood floor or the twitch of motion that is Sherlock turning to watch as she climbs the stairs.And if she fails to pull down his shirt so that it covers her properly, because maybe she doesn’t mind him staring - maybe she  _wants_ him staring - well, she has plausible deniability.


End file.
